At noon of the next clay Clem was walking on that part of the Thames Embankment which is between Waterloo Bridge and the Temple Pier. It was a mild morning, misty, but illuminated now and then with rays of sunlight, which gleamed dully upon the river and gave a yellowness to remote objects. At the distance of a dozen paces walked Bob Hewett; the two had had a difference in their conversation, and for some minutes kept thus apart, looking sullenly at the ground. Clem turned aside, and leaned her arms on the parapet. Presently her companion drew near and leaned in the same manner.
“What is it you want me to do?” he asked huskily. “Just speak plain, can’t you?”
“If you cant understand,—if you won’t, that is,—it’s no good speakin’ plainer.”
“You said the other night as you didn’t care about his money. If you think he means hookin’ it, let him go, and good riddance.”
“That’s a fool’s way of talkin’. I’m not goin’ to lose it all, if I can help it. There’s a way of stoppin’ him, and of gettin’ the money too.”
They both stared down at the water; it
